Green Eyes
by ElasticBobaTurtle
Summary: A collection of Itasaku drabbles and one shots. Angsty fluff.
1. Default Chapter

Just a short little drabble. Felt in the mood for an Itasaku thing. XD

* * *

Green eyes search dark ones, seeking, piercing. Darkness settles softly around the two figures, a blanket of seductive warmth.

A light touch on his arm awakens him from his momentary trance, his eyes flitting to the slender fingers resting on the black material of his clothes. Then, again, their eyes meet, gazes locking.

_This pain of letting go…_

She sighs, that same tired sigh that causes a curious little stirring inside of him, each and every time it falls from her parted lips. Her gaze falls; vivid green eyes are veiled by delicate lashes.

A pregnant silence ensues, each quiet, waiting for the words to come. But somehow, as it always seems, they don't.

Minutes tick by, marked by the slow beating of their hearts. Still, they wait, the feeling constricting their lungs, suffocating them, stifling the very air.

She gulps, her swallowing thick and painful, heart hitching uncomfortably in her ribcage.

"When?"

The word ripples through the air, sending invisible shivers cascading down his back. He averts his gaze, head tilting upwards. Long shadows hang from the ceiling, folded wings of darkness.

"Tonight…"

A trail of uncertainty follows, and for once, his words aren't punctuated by their usual crispness. She nods, the tiniest jerk of her neck, and her eyes cloud with some undefined emotion.

_Has it come already…?_

Before he can stop himself, his hand extends, a silent invitation. She looks up, a little startled – then the surprise melts into a calm knowing, and she accepts. Palms meet in an intimate embrace.

Green eyes close, lashes fanning out. A quiet murmur falls from her lips.

"Why…?"

He smirks wryly. Their fingers intertwine.

_The same question had been asked a million times before. And the same answer always followed…_

"Because…I have to."

His voice is quiet, almost meek, as if trying not to anger her. Somehow, even to him, the words sound dead, meaningless – so very ridiculous.

Why did he even bother to say them?

_Because there was nothing else to fill the silent aching._

But she is not angry, and her pale face does not grow livid, nor contort into a bitter expression as it usually does. Perhaps she is too tired to. Too used to the words for them to stir any reaction.

Instead, she breathes that curious little sigh of hers again, a silent stream of air, gliding through the darkness.

"You always say that," she says softly, a little accusingly, but with a touch of unmistakable fondness. Her eyes are still closed, and suddenly she leans forward to rest her head on his shoulder. At first he stiffens, then relaxes, tentatively putting his arms around her slim frame.

"What else am I supposed to say?" he replies calmly.

She knows the truth in those words; it is clear to her, to both of them. But still, it hurts.

Instead of answering his question, she only presses harder, leaning more of her weight against him, fingers squeezing his, almost desperately. He responds, his grasp around her tightening, possessive.

She stands there, listening to his steady heartbeat, relishing the feeling, hoping foolishly that it wouldn't end.

_How many times had she uttered that very same prayer?_

Because she is scared of what will happen when it _does _end– she knows so painfully well what will happen – when she will be left with nothing but that deep, devouring, aching void.

Her body is suddenly trembling uncontrollably. Was it the darkness that made her quake? The cold? Or fear?

_Fear? Of what?..._

But she only knew to well.

_Fear of him._

Of the things he could do to her, without even trying or meaning to. He could tear her apart, inside out, without laying a finger on her – through his eyes alone. Those eyes that sent a shiver scurrying down her spine every single time she thought of them. Like now.

"Why…?" she whispers again into the folds of his cloak, her voice muffled. She does not expect an answer, but merely asks the question for lack of nothing better to say.

She hopes that he does not hear the thick tears mingled in her voice.

He does, but he pretends not to, knowing how very hard she is trying to suppress those tears. His hands act on their own accord, and he finds himself stroking her silky hair, fingering the pale pink tresses.

And suddenly she cannot hold it in any longer – the pressure boiling inside of her is killing her slowly, softly…

So she cries. Quietly, but as bitterly as bitter can be. He feels the hot tears seeping through his clothes, tickling his skin and burning it like acid. Breathing in deeply, the scent of salt and pain fills his lungs. He breathes in deeper, as if in doing so, he can alleviate her pain. Slowly, as she sobs, he lifts her into his lap.

_The sound of crying is his only lullaby…_

She falls asleep that way, curled in his lap, her beautiful face streaked with tears. It is a restless sleep, but a sleep nonetheless.

He watches her in the darkness, the shadow of a sad smile tugging on his lips, her brows creased in a dreamless slumber. Quietly, he leans over, his eyes wandering over her features. And then his lips rest on her cool forehead, lightly, and only for a moment – but she feels it.

_It's time…_

Cautiously, tenderly, he sets her down, his fingers lingering. One last glance, one last touch…

He crouches besides her, watching her breathe, her lashes quivering just slightly – and then, gracefully, he stands to his full height, black cloak billowing about him in a silky pool of obsidian.

Purposefully, slowly, half reluctantly, he strides towards the door; his sandaled feet quiet.

His hand rests on the doorknob. A twinge of hesitance runs through him, and he pauses.

_Should I? _

And then his hand grips the doorknob, determined, knuckles blanched white. He slips through, his body as fluid as water.

…And he feels the sad gaze of green eyes on his back…

_This pain of letting go…_

**End**

* * *

Wow, my first one-shot! Kinda fun...>.>;;

Anyways...pretty sucky. Ah well.


	2. Take Me Away

Another little Itasaku one-shot. Dude, I love reading angsty one-shots. >.

_

* * *

Take me away…_

A girl slips through the doorway, a slim shadow. Her skin is pale, almost luminous in the darkness. She looks straight at him with her striking green eyes. Her hair falls softly about her face, a fringe of pink tresses, and she offers him a strange smile, a twisted smile.

Something about her is different, this time around…

But he can't quite tell.

She glides towards him, her grace as untouchable as always. As she draws closer, a strange sensation passes through him, almost eerie. What was it? What was it about her?

Slowly, smoothly, her arms slide up to touch him, her touch burning, quivering. Lightly, her small hands rest on his shoulders. She looks up at him, expectant, beseeching. His eyes travel the length of her face ? her pale, drawn, face ? and he leans closer.

Their lips touch, gentle, barely.

She looks up at him again when he pulls away, head cocked slightly, as if posing a silent question. A slight shiver runs up his spine, tickling.

Her mouth opens, just a little, lips parted. And she stares at him blankly, as if she is trying to say something, but can't. He waits patiently, observing her as she moistens her lips again.

"_Itachi…" _her whisper is husky, low, reminding him in some remote way of warm summer nights. Her eyes close slowly and she wraps her slender arms around her own body, hugging herself in the darkness. He steps closer and encloses her in his cloak, an envelope of warmth.

"_Take me away…"_ Her breath tickles near his ear, like an errant butterfly, and he shivers. He looks at her inquiringly, a bit puzzled, but her eyes are still closed.

"_To where?" _he murmurs, a touch of amusement hinted in his voice.

"_Anywhere but here."_

"_You don't like it here?"_

He waits for an answer.

"_No…"_ her voice trails off, sluggish, tired. _"There's too much…"_

"_Too much what?"_

"_Too much of everything…"_ She pauses. "_Too much of life."_

He doesn't quite understand what she's trying to say, and yet he does, oddly. This time she is the one who asks the question.

"_Don't you ever get tired of life..?"_

Her eyes open, finally, and her gaze rests fully on him. His eyes lock with hers, and he sees a deep bitterness painted beneath her features that he hadn't seen before.

"_Yes," _he answers. It was the honest truth. _"Too often."_

She smiles the ghost of a smile, and somehow it is unsettling. _"Then you understand, don't you? You understand…"_

"_Yes…" _But he is uncertain.

_What was she really asking?_

"_You understand the pain."_ Then suddenly, another question is thrown at him. _"Why do we live?" _

He looks at her again, a little strangely, but she continues, unfazed.

"_Why do we live in this world? What is the point of life? We all die, someday; years from now – maybe even tomorrow…"_

She sighs, and her sigh is hollow like the whistling of wind.

"_What is the point of living if we only suffer? What do we get out of life except regrets of the past?_

She throws her voice about, carelessly, recklessly. He stands beside her, silent, wondering.

"_What does it matter if we only live to be forgotten? Who will remember us? No one…"_

Her green eyes grow listless, almost sad.

"_Absolutely no one…"_

Her hand reaches for his arm, and her grip tightens.

"_Why, Itachi? Why do we live?"_

Her voice dies down, as if it is suddenly exhausted. She goes limp in his arms, head rolling against his shoulder. He holds her, a broken china doll.

And then she speaks out again, weakly, her voice below a whisper.

"_Please, just…take me away…"_

And he realizes what is different about her, this time around.

Because now…she is just like him.

They are birds of a feather – straggled feathers eddying in the cold, sweeping wind. And he holds her closer, fiercely, his dark eyes closing. He breathes in her sad scent, and relishes it.

"_I'm sorry…" _he murmurs quietly. _"I can't."_

She burrows deeper into his arms and lets out a small whimper, a plea.

"_Why, Itachi? Why can't you…?"_

He strokes her soft hair, her downy hair, as if that is an answer enough.

_Don't you know, Sakura? If I could, I would already be there. Away from this. _

But he doesn't say that, only remains silent because there isn't anything else he can do. He only listens, to her incessant whisper caressing his ear.

"_Take me away…"_

**End

* * *

**

...Yeah.


	3. Suffocation

Dang. One-shots are crazy fun.

X-x-x-xx-x-

His cloak was brushing against her leg, tickling. She tried not to concentrate on how close he was. There were more important things to worry about, like the fact that he was about to kill her.

"Are you afraid?"

The voice was deep, smooth, sliding down her neck, sending an unexpected jolt through her veins. She checked herself, reminding herself to be calm, cool, in control. She took a deep breath.

"No."

_What a joke._

Of course she was afraid. She was half-scared out of her wits. Who wouldn't be, in their right mind?

_This is it._

Her eyes were shut tight, lashes quivering the slightest bit. She swallowed thickly, trying to control the erratic pumping of her heart.

_It'll all be over soon._

She could feel it tickling teasingly at her throat, its sharp end pricking oh-so-delicately at her skin—

His breath danced in her ear; it was light, seemingly unaffected by the grim circumstances of the situation. Everything about him was unaffected. He was unaffected; by time, by people, by emotions, by life, by love—

By her.

Not that it mattered. She didn't care, she told herself. Why should she, when she was staring Death straight in the eyes?

A sardonic smirk twitched at the ends of her lips, despite herself.

"Why aren't you afraid?"

She shivered slightly as his voice brushed against her ear again, soft like velvet.

What was she supposed to say now?

"Because," she faltered. "Death is inevitable, right? So why should I fear it when I already know that it's coming, sooner or later?"

_Where did that answer come from…?_

"But don't you have regrets?"

She couldn't help but sigh then, her voice dropping, shoulders slumping a little, almost like a tired mother reprimanding an ignorant child.

"Of course I do. We all do. But there isn't anything I can do about it, is there?"

There was a pause. He seemed to be contemplating something, turning it over in that brilliant mind of his.

"No."

His answer was distinct, clear in the clammy, hushed air that floated about them like an audience of apathetic spectators.

_Hurry up and get this over with._

Her face was pale, ghostly white, and she waited silently, expectantly, almost pleadingly. Waiting for Death.

But nothing came, only the ever-present pricking at her neck, dangerously subtle; a constant reminder. Her eyes finally slid open, taking in the drab walls that imprisoned them, crushing in on them.

_I sort of hoped my life would end differently._

She smiled wryly.

But of course, things didn't always work out as planned. She had learned long ago that life was like that, choosing things for you without caring to ask your opinion.

"Look," she broke in finally, when the silence became too much to bear, the tight, sick churning in her stomach overwhelming. "I just want to get this—"

A rough hand clamped over her mouth, making her choke back on her words with surprise, vibrant green eyes opened wide.

"Don't tell me what to do."

The voice was silent, deadly, and impossibly flat. Her eyes narrowed and she struggled madly in furious indignation to break free from his grasp; but he held on tight, deadly tight, his hold unbreakable and stolid.

_Damn it. _

She let out the loudest scream she could muster – throwing her entire soul into that scream; but it was muffled by his hand and didn't even carry to the walls. It fell harmlessly into his cupped hand, and he didn't even waver in the slightest bit. She screamed until she was forced to stop in order to fill her aching, raw, bursting lungs with air. She felt like she was suffocating, dying slowly but most surely, her throat sore and throbbing wildly, pulsating with the despair of its own dwindling life.

_Damn it, damn it, damn it…_

Her eyes were hot, burning poking hot, like chestnuts roasting on a toasty Christmas fire, and she didn't even know _why_.

_Just kill me already, damn it. Stop toying with me, you bastard._

Her eyes felt salty, stinging wet, and still unbearably hot.

_Damn it! Just stop this. _

She tried to scream again, but her throat was still hoarse and didn't seem to function properly. All she could manage was a pathetic little croak, and it coughed out into his hand in a puff of weak nothing. A sound of surrender.

Her eyes were hotter than ever; it felt like they were burning, burning, burning, as if they would melt away…

_Please…_

And then she suddenly burst open, violently, like a tattered old wine skin exploding to pieces, everything pouring out in a torrent of bitter hate and fear and longing and a tiny bit of hope all boiled into one hateful concoction that told the whole story of her sad life.

The tears slid out easily, smoothly, and they singed her wherever they fell, acidic and unforgiving, filled with hate for everything, everything, even the shedder who created them. It burned her cheeks and lips and chin and neck and even her toes…

_God damn it._

She _really_ wanted to retch right now. She didn't know why; the urge was sudden and overpowering, and she wouldn't have been surprised if she just bent over and puked all over his goddamn cloak right then and there. It would have served him right, damn it.

If she was going to die by his hands, she may as well get a laugh out of it while she was at it.

"Can't….breathe." Her voice mingled indistinguishably with the air itself; an inaudible, dying breath.

_I'm going to suffocate. _

X-x-x—x-x-x

Wow. That was quite absurd. Anyways, I just started writing and, uh...this was spawned. T-T Pretty weird/blah. Ah well.


	4. Intoxication

One-shot madness. :D Um...this one is a bit on the, uh...weird side. I guess. >>;; :cough:

_

* * *

Tap. Tap._

There was the light, precise rapping of knuckles against hollow wood. A cricket's chirping wove throughout the fabric of the evening, stitching the seams of night as it fell, silently and stealthily.

She didn't hear it the first time, her head wrapped in a damp towel, wet hair stringy from a fresh, steamy shower. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the summer heat, pretty as a primrose. A hum hovered on her lips; the sound of a bee, but more melodic, and in some ways, intriguing.

_Tap. Tap. _

It was a little louder and more pronounced, but not overly intrusive.

She continued busying herself, oblivious, flinging the towel off of her head. Her hair fell in dripping bunches onto her shoulders, leaving wet, elegant trails across the old white shirt she was wearing. She sighed and rolled her head back, exhaling.

"It's hot," she decided suddenly.

She made her way towards the air conditioning, still humming quietly to herself, and switched it on. A reverberating drone filled the room, harmonizing with her humming. She sighed as the cool air perfumed her cheeks.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

It was sharper, a little impatience edging through the sound.

Her ear caught a fragment of the sound, her head cocking the slightest bit, but she wasn't quite sure. She stood there, hands resting on her hips, as if waiting for a sign.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

She was sure she had heard it this time. Her feet slipped fluidly across the floor as she made her way towards the door.

"Coming," she called, though it really wasn't necessary.

_It's probably Ino._

She sighed again as she opened the door.

"Hey—"

She looked up and froze; the blood in her veins stopping suddenly and without warning. Her mouth hung open slightly, lips parted.

"Good evening."

She didn't respond; she couldn't. The words strangled each other in her throat, sticking there like a lump of clay.

There was a soft click as the door closed shut and a subtle swishing of cloth as it caressed the floor.

She seemed to break free from her daze at that moment, green eyes snapping back to reality.

"You—" she stopped.

What was she supposed to say? There was a heavy, clammy silence, and then it was broken smoothly by the calm voice.

"Yes?" There was a touch of amusement playing in his words, barely detectable.

Her jaw tightened, eyes narrowing darkly.

"What are you doing here?" Her voice was as hard as jade, though he could still hear the quivering beneath it that she tried so hard to hide.

He didn't answer her question, only swept casually past her, his steps as silky as the cloak he wore.

She remained standing where she was, her slender fingers clenching, and her toes curling angrily on the floor.

"Why are you here?" Her green eyes bore into his back. There was no reply, only more uncaring silence. Her teeth gritted and she angrily spat out her words.

"Answer me. Why are you here?"

Without thinking, she reached out and grasped his cloak from behind, yanking it back forcefully.

"Don't ignore me!"

Her anger was cut short by his fingers clamped almost savagely around her wrist, his body pressing unexpectedly against hers from behind.

"I'm not."

His voice trickled softly down her ear, and her eyes widened in a surprise she forgot to conceal. She shivered as his warm breath ran down her spine in twisting arcs, rebellious heat rushing to her cheeks.

And then just as quickly, his suffocating presence behind her was gone, the fingers around her wrist vanished, and he was standing in front of her again, his back turned in a gesture of nonchalance.

--While she stood there in a daze, her heart pounding loudly in her own ears.

She finally seemed to remember where she was and who she was dealing with, her eyes narrowing again. The words choked their way out.

"I asked you a question, and I want an answer."

She stood there, her lungs squeezing uncomfortably. He stood there too, but there was something natural about the way he stood there, a kind of island of calm. Like he was used to things like this – and now he simply accepted it, and became a part of it so that it was no longer awkward, but untouchably graceful.

"There is none."

She was dumbstruck for a moment, caught-off guard and sent spinning. He was a mastermind, a prodigy, and she had always thought that he had an answer for everything – for life, for death – and certainly an answer for a question as simple as hers.

"I—"

He turned to face her now, his dark eyes fixing steadily on her, beautiful and chilling at the same time. His dark ones caught her green ones, and held them there for what seemed to be an eternity to her. His stare froze the fumbling words in her throat and they lay there, dying in the icy warmth of his gaze.

She tried to find the words again, tried to revive them. They stumbled out of her mouth clumsily, tripping over one another in a hopeless pirouette, her eyes still held by his.

"But—I don't…I don't understand."

Something twitched at the corners of his mouth, the soft ghost of a smile, so discreet she missed it altogether. But it was still there, even if she hadn't seen it.

"I didn't ask you to."

His voice was quiet. There was something about his quiet, passive nature that always threw her off. It was so different – so different than what she had always expected, what she had always thought he was like. She had mused to herself; the one that Sasuke hates – he must be crude, bloodthirsty. But he was different beyond measure, elegant and poised beyond her wildest imagination, and in some ways she had sort of expected it without knowing.

Something about him – he was not a mere murderer. There was more to him than that; infinitely and frighteningly more.

And then suddenly he was behind her again, just like he had been moments before, his body touching lightly and teasingly against hers, his warmth clinging to her skin and his cloak billowing out at the ends, black wisps of her dawning insanity.

His breath was running down her neck, a vague sense of déjà vu shivering down her spine along with it.

"Do you know?"

She stiffened at his odd, clipped question.

"W-what?"

His fingers lightly brushed her cheek, gently turning her around to face him. Her skin tingled faintly in burning patches where his fingers ran across it.

She was shaking now, her body overcome with fitful shivering, her breathing painfully unsteady. She tried to stop the thin, feeble trembling, her jaw clenching in fruitless determination.

He observed her, his gaze cool and lingering.

A small smirk graced his lips, and this time she caught it. She very nearly hated that expression of his, but somehow she couldn't bring herself to fully hate it – because it reminded her too much of a certain someone – a strikingly similar someone.

His thumb ran softly along the line of her jaw, his touch soothing and despicable at the same time, her skin crawling.

"Stop…please."

She tried to push him away, but he easily caught her wrists and held them, gently but firmly. She struggled a little at first but he tightened his grip, the deepening pressure against her skin prompting her to stop.

"What are you doing?" she asked quietly, her sullen eyes meeting his, posing a piercing question. He returned the stare with a steady look, unperturbed.

She felt a brief push against the small of her back, and then her ear was pressed up against his chest, her body almost crushed against his, hands pinned in between. Her cheeks flushed, coloring a deep, rosy pink.

"S-stop—"

"Do you know what that is?" he asked, cutting her off. She stopped her stuttering and simply stood there, leaned awkwardly against him, perplexity wrinkling her smooth brow; her breathing loud in her own ears.

She looked up at him again, her green eyes glassy with confusion, seeking an answer.

"Listen."

So she did, and she heard things she would have never imagined. She listened beyond the air conditioning that still prattled on comfortably, the crickets chirping in the dusky brilliance of the sky, a nightingale cooing softly, the leaves conversing – beyond it all to something deeper and more drawing.

She could hear her own heart beating – loud, so very loud – and her own breathing – loud, so very loud.

And she could hear his heartbeat, too.

--He wasn't dead.

He was still alive, as alive as she was, and he could still feel pain, too, no matter how invincible or untouchable he seemed to be in all his morbid glory.

For a moment, she was lost in the lull of listening, the quiet, hushed beauty of living.

It was the strangest sensation.

"Do you hear it?" his whisper so near her ear. It startled her, and she jumped despite herself. His breath snaking down her neck, so lovely—

His arms wrapped around her, so warm.

A fuzzy thought of defiance was pushed aside by sleepy murmurs of acceptance.

She could feel his heat seeping through her skin in the pleasantest of ways, like honey.

_Stop…I need to…_

She shifted in his grasp, but it was a tired kind of shifting, like the yawning of a cat as it turns on its back in its midday nap.

"Stop…" she breathed, her words like the breezy, husky scent of lilacs, unheeded. Steamy silence was the only response. His lips trailing down her neck, grazing her skin so lightly, the tips of velvety butterfly wings – she could barely feel it, and for a moment she wondered if she was imagining things. She shivered.

She tried to free her hands wedged between their bodies.

His lips touched her skin and stayed there for a moment. Goosebumps danced down her shoulders, cold with fear and something else she could not make out; something she was afraid to.

"Don't." The word he spoke blurred with double meanings, his lips burning the syllable into her skin. She let her struggling fall limp, leaving her hands to tingle.

Her lashes felt oddly heavy, like weighted snowflakes; her eyes drifting close, between a smoky reality and the black dissonance of her dreams.

"Please…stop," her voice a soft plea, a helpless plea. "Don't."

Her words were meant for him, but she was half-convincing herself, too. The room around her was flickering, sputtering, and slowly fading into a slipping stream of inevitable regrets.

"I don't…"

Her breathing was heavy, almost drugged as she struggled to piece together her floundering sentence, eyes half-lidded.

"You don't…want this?" he finished for her, a slight note of smugness carrying through. She moaned lowly to herself, eyes fluttering close.

_Damn it. What am I doing? No. I don't want this. I don't._

"I…" her lungs were so heavy, the words so tiring to speak.

He reached up to caress her cheek again. Her eyes flickered open briefly, snatches of green flashing through between thick lashes. His fingers rested lightly on her lips, tips barely meeting.

She was heady, tipsy, nearly giddy, the whole room swerving. Her head dipped back gracefully, mouth parting, the feeling of his fingers rolling languidly on her lips.

_All this pain and sorrow…I can feel it in his touch_, she thought suddenly, unexpectedly. Her eyes fluttered open, peering into his, strangely unafraid. Maybe it was the intoxication, maybe it was something else…

"You can't hide it," she whispered, her voice thick, eyes easing close again.

He stiffened momentarily, his back growing rigid. Then he relaxed, breathing out onto her neck, lowering his lips to her ear.

"I know."

X-x-x-x-x—x-x-x

Yes. That was a bit longer than my usual one-shots. Quite odd. I'm partially insane. :D


	5. Secrets

Gah. Maroon 5 influence, I say. --; Just some more Itasaku for my venting purposes.

* * *

It was a secret.

And she made sure that it stayed that way. It was only on moonlit nights like these that she dared to breathe out, dared to let the thoughts come, flowing through her mind, treacherous and subtle in their husky whisperings of delusion. It was only on moonlit nights like these that they met.

It was always in the same place.

Always, it was dark there, and always, it was dank. Sometimes it smelled of fish, sometimes it smelled of damp sweat and of corpses. It blotted out any flitting, hopeful feelings of _romance, _if there were any – but she didn't care. Because he would be there, and that would be more than enough for her.

Tonight was one of those nights.

She shivered in the cold, tried to blow away the scent of decay that clouded her nostrils in a thickly clotted perfume. And she waited.

Her eyes turned to the ashen moon, the bloated moon, a specter of silver and craters, luminously watchful. She was thankful when a grey swatch of clouds came, snuffing out the moonlight, covering those prying eyes of judgment.

_Where are you?_

She knew she should be patient, but there was that questionable quivering inside of her; growing more and more insistent and she couldn't _deny _it. She couldn't.

It was quiet.

The shifting silence of waiting before-hand always made her nervous, sent the hair on her neck prickling with murky apprehension. Every alleyway held unknown witnesses; a squeaking, scuttling rat suddenly became a wide-eyed child. She'd kill it before she knew what was happening, fingers trembling, and the relief would wash over when she saw its furry dead body, a kind of cruel reassurance that came with goose bumps like these. Every noise, every slight utterance was a danger; a faulty footstep was the harbinger of death.

When he came, it was always unexpected.

She liked it this way, the edginess that kept her on her toes, the thrill of the obscurity. It was frightening, but there was no denying its insidious appeal, the dark beauty that only she could see through jaded eyes like hers.

Through dirtied eyes like hers.

She hadn't been able to see it clearly before, the picture of its splendor blurred with her wavering innocence of years long ago. It was different now, much different. Innocence lost, him gained. It might appall others, but hah, she rather liked it better this way and she could honestly care less about what _others_ thought. She was sick of that sort of thing.

But during the daytime, it was different. She was certainly more careful, and she made sure that her smile was still intact, that dusty broken smile of hers. Daytime was her time of masquerade, of mysteriously chosen words and water-washed façades.

She knew that they knew that something about her was _different_, but she also knew that they didn't know exactly what, and didn't care enough to _see_ what. She was fine with that, really.

She was fine.

She didn't care that they didn't care.

On one very rare occasion, Naruto had asked her what was wrong, his blue eyes filled with curiosity, and – she laughed at this – _concern_. She had looked into his clear eyes and she had seen herself, so dirty and pale, and she had _smiled _at him, head cocked. She still remembered freshly how he had backed away nervously then, brow creased with a faint tinge of _fear, _stuttering a lame excuse to leave. He hadn't approached her since.

You see, she had two kinds of smiles.

One was that dusty broken smile. The other one was a mad smile.

She blinked, brought back to the reality that was fluttering shadows and muted blue. One shadow twitched and she held her breath, lungs constricted with vines of suffocation.

_I know I don't know you…_

She drew her arms closer around her quivering body, clenching her jaw.

"Waiting for someone?"

She shivered at the voice, her lips turning up faintly. Slowly, tortuously slow, she turned towards the voice, her vivid eyes falling onto the cloaked figure, his distinct black merging with the soft black of the shadows.

_But I want you so bad._

"Maybe," she replied conversationally, immediately quelling any fluttering nervousness in her stomach. She had done this enough times before; there was no use in anxiety.

She watched in pointed indifference as he glided nearer, his grace seamless, his footsteps silent. It was only when he was right beside her, so close she could trace his pale skin with her gaze that she allowed herself to smile fully.

Her mad smile.

_Everyone has a secret. _

"Would you like company?" he asked, his tone so calm and casual, it was like silk running across her skin.

She allowed herself a ghost smirk, green eyes lifting to meet his dangerous ones.

"Sure.

_Can they keep it?_

X-x-x—x-x-x-x-

Hmm, if you didn't realize it, the italics nearing the end are lyrics from Maroon 5's "Secret". A sort of half-lame attempt at a song fic, I suppose. Not really, though. Random Itasaku scenario...sort of cliche, sadly.


	6. Last Dance

Hmm. Haven't written Itasaku for quite a while, now. Getting a little rusty. ;; Ah well. Sort of bad.

* * *

A short laugh. Dry, like wood, and humorless, too.

"Coincidence?" the voice asks, so casual it may have been an invitation to dinner.

"Hardly." An almost smile on her lips. The grinding of metal flashes blue in her eyes and for a moment she is blind. Her hands tremble as the blades catch; she feels his ease and her desperation.

"Fate?" the voice murmurs, tickles her ear.

"Maybe," she smirks, shivering. She doesn't know from what.

The blades release and the dark swoops in again, and she crouches, breathing harder than she would have liked. He can probably hear her, is probably laughing to himself somewhere in a dark corner of this room of nightmares.

The blades meet again, and the blue flashes bright but fleeting.

"Having fun?" the voice breezes in her ear. He might have been yawning.

"Not really," she grits out, but the almost-smile is still red as wine on her lips, red as a lie. "And you?"

Dangerously close, dangerously warm is the voice. "Most definitely."

It is gone the next moment, her ear cold like autumn winds whistling through. Her palms stick together with sweat and the blood of her team-members and she narrowly misses tripping over one of the bodies. She kicks it out of the way, listens to it rolling _thump thumpity thump_, and pictures its arms flopping over its head. Wonders faintly which one of her team members it was before the blades grind again and the blue blinds again.

"Tired?" the voice whispers, as if imparting the darkest of secrets.

"Sort of," she replies with her heart pounding, ducks her head in the margin of a second before life's end, and hears the inaudible swish of a cloak above a moment later.

She feels the bite of a blade searing across her arm, winces quietly as the blood drips through her fingers _drip drop _onto the cold floor.

"Does it hurt?" A rhetorical question, of course.

"Yes," she breathes out, and the warmth of her own blood stains her fingernails crimson. She shivers again.

Eyes narrowing, she breathes hard; he listens quietly, cloaked by shadows. Both of their lips are cracked up the slightest bit, but only very, very slightly. Mustn't let the other see, you see.

For this is their last dance, whether she acknowledges it or not, whether he cares or not. It doesn't matter either way.

She twirls and he turns, the steps perfectly executed and not once rehearsed; their hands meet, quivering as the blades grate together, holding a single note. She knows he is only toying with her—lets him do it anyways. She wants this dance to last; isn't quite sure why.

So they dance for awhile.

Her steps grow clumsier and more erratic as the dance progresses; his are all the more graceful, as if to make up for her faults, and as she slips he holds, as she falls he catches.

They are perfect together.

Her breathing is loud, loud in her ears and in his. Each gulp of air is like a greedy vacuum, _suck-sucking-keep-breathing-don't-stop—_

His breathing is quiet as the air, does not quicken in the least.

Her head is throbbing horribly and she doesn't think she can see or think straight anymore, doesn't think this dance is going to last very much longer. He senses this, the winding down and building up all at once, the last, most crucial steps that lead to the final crescendo, the final _bang _before the sudden release, the slow and sad death of the story that somehow always manages to slip past unnoticed.

Her breathing is so loud it fills the whole room, ragged and dark like black crows' feathers.

"Give up?" he asks. This is the only gift he can offer, though it is morbid all the same. Her eyes are wild and bright in the gloomy light, and the almost smile on her lips gleams redder than ever.

"Never," she gasps out and she throws herself in one last ditch attempt, throws herself at him in frenzy.

He catches her.

She does not move as he holds her still; the almost smile on her lips cracks wider, cracks harder, begins to bleed, and she begins to cry.

She cries because she is sad, cries because the dance is ending and she feels it dying in her breath, cries because she _knows_ he never has. The almost smile on _his _face cracks wide and it is no longer an almost smile anymore. He watches the tears drip down her face and listens to her quiet snuffling.

"Remember?" he murmurs, eyes red as the almost-smile that lies, exhausted on her lips.

"Always," she chokes, and then the world washes black.

-

She wakes up the next morning and wonders why her head hurts so much.

* * *

Weird scene. It may not make any sense...sorry. >>; 


	7. This Moment

The breath they shared was hot, clouding judgment and reality with desire and delirium. She clung to him, desperately, trying to eliminate the distance between them. Maybe by doing so she could erase the inevitable goodbye.

(never mind how heavily the lie hung on her lashes, darkening like charcoal)

He held her close; his touch was hot but tempered, like everything he was. Ashes were smudged across her cheeks and forehead like some mourning ritual and the tragedy throbbed in her eyes, deep inside his silent heart where it went unacknowledged.

She held on tight.

He murmured in her ear, gently, "They're coming."

She tightened her hold, screwing her eyes shut. _Reality can't come in this way_, she told herself, even as it paced loudly outside a thin layer of skin. There was no shutting it out.

He began to remove himself from her, his touch light and coaxing. She resisted, brow furrowed, as she bit at her bottom lip. For moment he stopped and drew his mouth close to her ear.

"Sakura…" he whispered. She shivered, swallowed, and then let her arms go limp about his neck in tired surrender. He led them down to her sides, gently. She stood there in the flickering darkness, shuddering, eyes still pressed close.

He watched the lump in her throat drown and then resurface, palely. It bobbed below, never quite vanished.

She made a small sound in the back of her throat, like a gurgling and a whimper and a sad attempt to be strong. Her eyes opened, slowly, and a slice of green showed through the lashes.

"Itachi…" the word was strangled like her look. "Can't we….can't this…?"

She stopped, and the question clouded the air, painfully. She looked away because she knew the answer, and so did he.

Shouts were heard in the distance, warped by time and space, flame and blood. She stood stiffly, knees and elbows and all the joints cracked with sorrow and hate for the impossible.

There was a muffled pounding at the door, and everything was a swirl of cinder and choking smoke. She heard her name being called but did not answer, the fear drumming inside her ribcage (_thump thump, here they come)_. In her panic, she searched for his eyes through the swirling smoke. He stood regarding her silently. She could not decipher his expression (or lack of one), and for a moment she was shaken.

The pounding on the door became more violent and her heart quickened, the fear blossoming into her eyes to stain the green. In her alarm she reached for him.

"Itachi," she whispered fiercely, and he said nothing but enfolded her in his cloak.

The pounding was on the verge of breakthrough but for this moment there was no fear, there was nothing to touch her but him. She was alone with him in the dark and the bloody flame, and this was the way things were meant to be.

_(Don't leave me, please, promise me.)_

_(…I do not make promises I cannot keep.)_

And then the door burst through and she was alone, a flurry of darkness departed. Naruto came through the cloud of splinters and ashes, his expression heartbreakingly anxious.

"Sakura-chan!" he cried as he rushed towards her.

She could not meet his gaze.

"Sakura-chan, are you alright? Are you hurt?" he asked, flitting over her in concern.

She shook her head, still never looking him in the eye.

He came closer, out of breath, and she nearly flinched but stopped herself. "Did you—did you see him?"

The question was a barb, but she tried to ignore the pain. She stood in a daze.

"Sakura-chan?"

"No," she whispered hoarsely. _How could she lie so easily?_

The sight of him was burned in her mind.

-

I seriously have not written Itasaku in forever. I kind of miss it.


	8. Love is Our Euphemism

Close against the wall, he has her trapped. Their breathing is quiet (though hers a little louder, a little faster, shaky race-car driving). She looks up into his eyes, a small flicker of fear in between shades of candid green. He leans in closer and she stops herself from flinching, though her body tenses.

She can't look away, not when it comes to this.

-

_The first time she met him, it was love entwined with hate. She was struck by his beauty as much as she was by his cold indifference; the way he breathed a ghost's breath, not quite real. It fascinated her, how he separated himself from all the things she clung to: hope (deceptive euphemisms), ghosts, her own failure, love, his name. His voice had been hypnotic, like haunted bells she'd heard ringing from a burning church several years ago. And like the dying communion wine, looking into his eyes made her lose herself all over again._

-

He asks her a question she can barely hear. He gives her two options she cannot bear. He offers her the choice to rip her soul apart or slowly starve it.

-

_The first time she fought him, she couldn't breathe out of fear. It wasn't a fight, really; he hadn't said a thing and the battle was lost. He didn't have to look at her fully and she was his. And when he knocked her out, like she'd already anticipated, the black was beautiful and strangely warm, and she felt she could be free this way, just maybe. _

_And she'd fainted into his arms, like a bride into a groom's, like it was meant to be._

-

His touch against her skin, barely there. A ghost of dreams. She shivers but is drawn towards it, like shadows to the moon. She wants more of it, _more _(the craving is vivid like peach skins dipped in black paint); but she isn't supposed to feel this way. The wry smile cracks on her lips like a walnut and she remembers what she is here for, and why loving him is a lost cause.

-

_The first time she watched him kill, she'd expected to feel disgust. That was always what she felt when she looked upon death and its sickly green hues. But when she saw the kunai gripped in his hand, and his movements streaming marble-smooth, there was a different sensation. Awe. It was fascinating, the way he made killing into an art, until she could almost believe it was something beautiful._

_She had gotten blood all over herself from his neat slices, little squirts in her eyes and on her cheeks arcing through far blue. It was sticky and uncomfortable, but watching his dance was mesmerizing and in it, she could forget the red drying on her skin and marking her as his._

_He'd stood there after the killing was done, with his arm held out towards her and the knife point slick with red, shining, like the needle of a compass. She'd sat crumpled on the floor, numb, feeling lost in her legs but not in her heart. Their eyes met, somehow; hers, glassy and shocked, his, deep and red (but was that surrender she saw in the echo of black?)._

_He hadn't offered an apology, but then again, she never asked for one._

-

She wonders what these feelings are supposed to mean, and why they clash so loudly with her memories of what love is supposed to be. No, not romantic notions, not lonely walks home when he should have been with her—no. Not dates with her hair pulled up at the nape of her slender neck and cherry lipstick gloss, or fluttering kisses—no. She knows there's much more to love than that, now.

Looking into his eyes, she's learned that love is a torturous path. She can't tell where it will lead, or if she's taken the right step. She doesn't know if the next one will send her tumbling, as she shuffles along the edge of this crumbling cliff, with her back against nothing and her fingertips clawing orange sky. But love is the force that compels, drives against all common sense and every other value she's ever learned from that cursed book of shinobi rules. Against any promises she's ever written in the ink of her tears, sliding down her cheeks to stain the floor.

He's unwritten her, with his looks and his allure, perhaps unintentional. Erased.

She can't remember who she's supposed to love anymore.

-

_The first time she took his hand, it was a choice. She could have refused, _should _have—_

_But she didn't._

_She might have turned on him and fled amidst the fighting and the chaos; she might even have escaped, but something inside of her trembled when he looked upon her, with eyes as calm as the surface of a lake. (something lurking in the depths—)_

_She didn't need his warm hand holding hers, or that feeling of unshakable security, sincerity, _belonging_…_

_She didn't, but she chose it._

_And somehow, she couldn't bring herself to regret it._

-

"It's a choice you must make," he whispers, and the dreadful words are beautiful when coming from his lips. She shivers, but can't look away from his face, so close to hers; she could kiss it if she wanted to.

(she wants to!)

Her wrists are held above her head, his hand encircled gently around them, her back against the wall. Bodies too close, not close enough.

She can't answer.

She curses herself, silently. The choice should be easy. She shouldn't have to contemplate, not when the _right _thing is burning in her head, iron-hot and glowing.

She shouldn't, but she does.

His look cools the iron smoldering in her head and she finds herself wondering if it was ever the right choice at all. All these ideals she's held onto, unfulfilled and desperate. Year after year after year after year, and his back always turned—

Was it ever worth it?

His heady warmth and his quiet eyes draw her in. She feels herself falling, despite herself.

"Your past or your future," he says, softly; and strangely, she cannot detect any deceit in the voice. She thinks she maybe hears a small hue of emotion in the quietness. But most likely it is wishful thinking, because he could never care.

Her past, crippled by the indifference of the boy she loved. She's nearly forgotten all the beautiful moments because of him, because of _this_.

Her future. She blinks and takes this man in, his pale skin and dark eyes and the way his hair frames his face. She tries to find something in all of it, tries to paint a picture of happiness in the folds of his eyes.

There's a magnitude in his gaze that's different from all the looks he's given her before. She could almost believe that there is more than a question in there. There is something she needs to find, amidst all the sharpness and cold and dying best friends.

But he doesn't let her search long enough. He slowly withdraws, taking back his hand and concealing it beneath the curtain of cloak. He turns and begins to walk away.

A part of her is shocked at how strongly she feels the loss, his absence, even so momentary. There's nothing holding her back anymore, but she feels oddly empty without his presence so close. Something missing, something that he has.

And she thinks to herself, she can't bear the sight of him walking away…

"Wait—" she hears herself, croaking. He stops. She can't let him go, not another piece.

Her heart is pounding so loudly she can barely distinguish the voices of her past clamoring in her ears. She can't hear Naruto's brash cries, or Kakashi's stupid advice, or her own foolish premonitions, or even Sasuke—

"Don't…don't leave," she whispers, bitterly.

Her heart jumping violently, it could almost burst through the seams of her body. _Please turn around, please…_

"Don't…" and the pleading in her voice sounds so familiar. She's said it so many times before, but the chord has never struck this true.

Slowly, he turns to face her. He takes a step towards her and her heart nearly explodes, her head throbbing and everything turning upside down. (_Konoha. _Somewhere, the sun is setting, casting shadows on a forgotten home.)

She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, she is looking into red and a smile buried deep.

And for once, she's not saying goodbye to a turned back, a closed heart.

For once, she knows where this path leads, and she isn't afraid to take it.

* * *

I found the file from a while back, and decided to finish it. :) itasaku is so hard to write now, haha...  



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